


Enjoying Himself

by Laylah



Category: Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: Community: seasonofkink, M/M, PWP, Sharing a Body, Somnophilia-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7164413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They cross to the futon and kneel at its edge, close enough to reach out and touch Philip's body. Philip's face is soft and relaxed, lips parted gently, eyes closed. In the shared space of their mind Philip is alert and fascinated, his excitement bleeding into Shoutarou's nervousness and making everything a little less troubling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjoying Himself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/gifts).



If it weren't Philip's idea it wouldn't be happening. That's true of more of their sex life than Shoutarou would like to admit, but in this particular case he's not sorry. If this were his idea it would be creepy. As something Philip wants to do it's just unnerving.

"Shoutarou," Philip says. Shoutarou realizes he's been staring off into space, the W driver around his waist and the Joker Memory clutched in his hand. "It will be okay. If it turns out to be too upsetting, we'll stop."

"I know," Shoutarou says. "It's fine."

The door is locked and the sign out front says they're closed. They're in the garage, behind another locked door, as a little insurance against Akiko showing up at an inopportune moment (though to be fair she's been more cautious about just letting herself in during off-hours since that first time). The futon is rolled out and Philip is already seated on it, wearing his half of the driver, waiting patiently. Shoutarou is still stalling.

"I don't understand your reservations," Philip says, "but I will respect them. If you're still this uncomfortable—"

"It's fine," Shoutarou says again. He holds up the Memory. "Ready?"

" _Henshin_ ," they say together. The motions of slotting in the Memories are automatic, so well-practiced that Shoutarou doesn't have to think about them anymore, and then Philip is there in his head, warm and strange and comfortable, as Philip's body flops backward onto the futon. It's a little strange to be doing this when nothing is threatening them, or Fuuto, or somebody they care about, but things being a little strange ought to actually be normal by now.

"You're talking yourself in circles," Philip says.

"I'm not," Shoutarou says pointlessly—Philip knows; why does he still feel the need to dissemble? don't answer that, it's rhetorical—and takes the first step toward the futon. 

They cross to the futon and kneel at its edge, close enough to reach out and touch Philip's body. Philip's face is soft and relaxed, lips parted gently, eyes closed. In the shared space of their mind Philip is alert and fascinated, his excitement bleeding into Shoutarou's nervousness and making everything a little less troubling.

Philip is the one who reaches out to trace those soft lips with a careful, gloved hand, but it's Shoutarou's reaction that makes the hair on the nape of their neck prickle alert. They can feel the touch, just barely, the ghost of sensation against their mouth. When their fingers slip into Philip's mouth they can feel it from both sides, the warm wetness of soft tissue and more faintly the pressure of fingers against tongue. 

"Fascinating," Philip breathes. Shoutarou can imagine the expression he'd be wearing if he were in his own body, wide-eyed with curiosity, fingers hovering by his mouth as if he wants to chew on his nails and is trying not to. 

But he's not in his body; his body is lying pliant and vulnerable in front of them.

They push his shirt up and run their right hand over the bared skin: the hollow below his ribcage, the arch and shape of rib, the flat line of sternum. Shoutarou feels faintly chagrined at how tawdry he was expecting this to be and how much it's not meeting his expectations. Philip's nipples are sensitive in ways Shoutarou's are not, which he knew but had never felt before—it's like there's an echo of the sensation in the base of his cock, nerves talking to each other in ways that don't make any logical sense.

"How far are we taking this?" he asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

"I would have thought it was obvious," Philip says. "I'm planning to attempt to achieve orgasm, unless you need to stop before then."

It's entirely Shoutarou's reflex response to that statement that has their cheeks heating inside the mask. Philip has never been embarrassed about anything in his life. "Lead the way, partner," Shoutarou manages.

"Mmmm." Philip is the one taking the lead, but for the body to move with any kind of coordination they both have to participate, so Shoutarou is along for the ride, helping to undress Philip's body and spread him out on the futon (and maybe taking a moment here or there for sentimental mush like cupping Philip's cheek in his hand, or brushing Philip's hair back off his face). 

It's unnerving again when they have Philip's body naked, because he's not hard and despite that they _are_ , inside the suit. Shoutarou wants to think that's Philip's arousal but he's pretty sure he can't entirely shift the blame.

"Still with me?" Philip asks as he trails their hand up the inside of his body's thigh.

"Always," Shoutarou croaks. Their hand encircles Philip's cock and strokes gently, coaxing it hard, and Shoutarou watches with his heart in his throat. The faint ghost-touch through the driver feels good, better than it has any right to.

It doesn't take long to get Philip hard, and Shoutarou finds himself watching the way Philip moves, the position of their hand, the little twist of their wrist at the top of the stroke: things he wants to remember next time he's the only one in this body, so he can do them for Philip by himself.

Philip reaches for the bottle of lube, and Shoutarou drags himself back to the present moment. He has to help with this part, too, contributing his coordination so they can open the bottle and squeeze out a dollop of the gel on their right hand. "You're really going for it, huh," Shoutarou says.

"I want to feel it," Philip says. He reaches between his thighs. "It's all right, Shoutarou. I _do_ consent to everything I'm doing."

"That makes it sound ridiculous to worry," Shoutarou complains. It does. And it doesn't _feel_ ridiculous to be unnerved by this, by Philip's body relaxed and silent, unresponsive as their fingers slick him up.

"Maybe," Philip says. He pushes. His body is tight and so hot around their finger, and the ghost of invasive strangeness makes their cock twitch. "But that's why I love you."

The casual way he slips it into conversation never fails to throw Shoutarou off-balance—trust Philip to be a terror even about that—but he feels warm and grateful all the way through, for the long strange series of choices and coincidences that led to this moment, when he and Philip are W, together, and are comfortable and practiced enough that they can use their powers for kinky sex as well as for saving Fuuto.

He's distracted again, but this time he catches it before Philip points it out, sliding their left hand up Philip's thigh to take hold of his cock. "I love you too, partner," he says, because he always feels unbalanced if he doesn't say it back.

Besides, the reminder helps. They love and trust each other, and that _does_ make this okay: Philip's body is quiet and unconscious but Philip's mind is right there curled around Shoutarou's, sharing this body and this moment with him, and they can feel what they're doing at a gentle, echoing remove, so they won't even do Philip's body any harm accidentally. It's all right that he looks so vulnerable (so much more vulnerable than he ever really is), and it's all right that he's beautiful like this (among many, many other ways).

Their fingers slide, wet and squelching, in Philip's ass, and their other hand strokes Philip's cock steadily (steadily! Shoutarou is almost proud of himself for pulling it together that well). The sensations build until they're trembling just from the echoes, and Philip's cheeks are flushing a rich pink. He's tight around their fingers, his thighs trembling reflexively.

"You're close," Shoutarou murmurs; he knows the signs.

Philip hums agreement. "I'm enjoying myself," he says. "Thank you, Shoutarou."

Shoutarou laughs breathlessly. "You don't have t-to, nnh," and words desert him. _Close_ isn't urgent enough to describe it, the fine tremors running through Philip's body and the flush spreading down over his chest, and the echo-ache pulsing in their cock as arousal builds. 

Philip's body tips over the edge into climax and the world seems to wrench sideways: the connection that makes them W unravels, Philip's eyes snap open at the same time that his cock paints a wet stripe up his middle, and Shoutarou gets bent almost double by the force of an orgasm that takes his breath away. They weren't even _touching_ him, and now he's made a mess in his pants.

They sit there panting for breath, staring at each other, and after a moment Philip breaks into a grin. "Fascinating! You came too, didn't you? Even though the sensation was considerably more muted for the lead-up, the orgasm itself is intense enough to overpower the damping effect—or maybe there's a feedback loop of some kind...."

He has _theories_ about this. Of course he does. Shoutarou pulls his fingers out carefully, interrupting Philip's hypothesizing not at all, and reaches for the tissues to wipe up. Philip is ridiculous at times like this. But that's why Shoutarou loves him.


End file.
